Of Volleyball and Politics
by Greys
Summary: 2006 FIVB Men's Volleyball World Championship in Japan. Some countries take it to extremes. But can you blame them? This is VOLLEYBALL! Also oil? What oil? Starring all, but Russia and Poland-centric, maybe Ludwig/Feliciano, RusPol


_Disclaimer: I own nothing, but the events are real (so yeah, I don't own them either)_

_Warnings: Chapter unbeta-ed_

_Characters: Alfred, Arthur, Matthew, Francis, Gilbert, Kiku, Ludwig, Feliciano, Lovino, Raivis and of course Poland et Russia_

_Notes: Beware Polish and Russian names (please read "sz" as "sh" and "ń" as "ni")_

_"Polsha"- Russian for Poland_

_"Rosja"- Polish for Russia ("j"="y")_

_"Biało-Czerwoni"- um, Polish word made of two words: "white" and "red" which are national colors of Poland. Roughtly it means "White-Red People"_

_It's important to know that Szymański and Gruszka didn't play at all in this tournament- match against Russia was technically their first in Japan. And while Gruszka was considered good, Szymański... not so much._

_The coach of Polish team at that time was called Raul Lozano (he was from Argentina)._

_In Montreal 1976, Polish Team won against USSR and insodoing became World Champions (we will never forget you!)_

_This fic is dedicated to Polish Volleyball Men Team, silver medalists from World Championships, Japan 2006 and gold medalist from European Championships, Turkey 2009_

* * *

November 27, anno Domini 2006, Japan, World Championships in Men Volleyball, _some hall_

The situation was peculiar.

Well, maybe "peculiar" was a wrong word as with the people involved, it shouldn't have surprised anyone.

Francis was sitting in the corner, bemoaning Lady Fate's cruelty; Arthur was smirking and gloating (seriously, he was the last person to do it- he didn't even _have_ a workable volleyball team. And what was he doing there anyway?!). Alfred, previously shocked that his team lost to France (_France_ for God's sake!) and that the best he could hope for was 9th place, was smiling cheerfully. When asked, he just answered that Brazil was still in the game and Brazil was in America, no? Never underestimate the geographic prowess of United States!

Ludwig, choking back his own tears of disappointment, was cuddling a wailing Feliciano(who suspiciously had a mischievous and oddly self-satisfied glint in his eyes; besides those tears were totally fake) with Lovino looking in embarrassment (_'Feliciano could at least find a closet!'_). Gilbert was currently calculating the possibility of his death if he were to throw himself off the roof and Japan was clutching his _katana_ tightly.

All of this was lost to the pair standing in the middle of the hall.

Russia was smiling serenely but the look in his eyes could have frozen hell ten times over. Fortunately, the one standing before him was made of sturdier material.

Poland, dressed in his national colors with pink hairpins in place, was checking his nails.

"So, like, tomorrow, huh?"

Cue the wind.

Ivan's smile grew wider.

"Ah, yes. Tomorrow we will crush you again, _Polsha_."

Feliks growled.

"Don't get comfortable. We're, like, totally going to go all Montreal '76 on your ass, _Rosja_."

Russia's left cheek twitched (he never took a lose lightly) but otherwise remained perfectly in control.

"Hm. You've said it last time as well. And the time before that, and the time before _that_."

The shorter man turned a flattering shade of red but swallowed a curse, not wanting to admit that Ivan was right.

"This time will be different. I have history on my side now!"

Russia looked incredulously at him. "You mean, this 30 years gap since that… lucky match of yours? How… naïve." "_Pathetic_" they both heard.

Poland narrowed his eyes. Ivan smirked. Somewhere in Latvia, Raivis fainted.

"I say, we settle it right here, right now." said Feliks, rubbing his fists. They gave a satisfying _crack_.

Ivan fixed his scarf. "For once, I agree."

But before the epic showdown even began, Japan appeared between them (which was quite remarkable considering they'd been standing very closely to each other. And I mean _veeeeery cloooosely_, hint, hint, nudge, nudge), his _katana _finally unsheathed, aura of death curling ominously around him.

"Not on _my _tournament."

Both Slavic nations looked dispassionately at him.

"Hmpf. Some tournament this is. We in Poland, like totally can teach you how to cheer properly."

"Hmpf. The frequency here is abysmal. In Russia, there wouldn't be a match with less than 100% (otherwise everybody would be send to kolkhoz)."

And then hell broke loose.

Ludwig freed himself from Feliciano in brave attempt to avoid decapitation, Francis finally stopped moping, Arthur's eyes bulged out of his sockets, Prussia jumped out of the window, Alfred choked on his popcorn and Matthew (unnoticed by everyone) stroked Kumajirou.

And next to the rampaging Japan, Russia and Poland, instead of running away, screaming for their mamas like normal people, lunged for the kill.

But alas, their plans of body-contact were foiled again, when Poland, shouting obscenities, was forcefully pulled away by England and France from equally incapacitated Russia who America held in nelson, with Ludwig and Matthew dragging him to the other end of the hall.

When both parties were at opposite doors, Ivan managed to, with his perfect façade completely gone, snarl out last words to his arch-nemesis.

"Tomorrow, _Polsha_! Tomorrow you will beg for mercy!"

The answer was predictable.

"We will kick your pasty Russian ass right to Moscow. Asshat!"

When they were finally alone (except for still rampaging Honda), Feliciano turned to his brother.

"Ve,ve, brother? Why are they acting this way? It's not even the finals, yet. And I know Ivan has to win in order to qualify to semi-finals, but Feliks too? He still has a match with Serbia, no?"

Lovino looked at his little brother and sighed.

"Volleyball. It's serious business."

* * *

November 28, anno Domini 2006, Japan, _Sendai City Gimnasium_

It was ironic, thought Poland, that they would end up in this situation.

When he had entered the _Gimnasium_, brandishing the ticket in his hand (unfortunately, being a nation didn't give him any special privileges when seats were concerned), he hadn't suspected that such a trap would be laid for him (he faintly wondered if it was revenge, Japan-style).

Next to his assigned seat, was no other but Ivan Braginsky.

For a moment, Feliks considered a strategic retreat but Russia soon noticed him, so Poland, not wanting to look like a wuss (because he wasn't!), had no choice but to sit beside him.

Whereas Poland looked like he was painted in white and red pigment, Russia's clothes weren't much different from what he usually wore.

Save from his Faucet of Doom, which, he just noticed, was colored in Russian national tones.

"Let's have a good game."

Feliks glanced from the outstretched arm to the ever-smiling face. He put his best 69# Smile and shook the hand.

"May the best team win."

It was only when referee started the match, both nations finally let go.

Neither of them commented on their nearly broken fingers- there were more important things to worry about.

* * *

'_It isn't happening. It ISN'T happening!' _thought desperately Feliks.

If he thought that the bad start with Poltavsky totally dominating his team via his serves and attacks, was, well, _bad, _he didn't know what to think now.

They were losing 2:0

That was… bad. Bad like _bad_.

And the worst thing: it didn't look as if there was anything to be done. Russia was just that good.

He shook his head at the last thought. _'Have faith, have faith, have the goddamn faith! Come on Lozano, think of something.' _

"It looks like your coach thought of something."

Poland was actually surprised at Russia's attempt at cheering him up (until now, he was just sitting there, smirking arrogantly) and raised his head.

It became apparent just why Ivan opted to say this to him.

A new player appeared on the field.

It was Grzegorz Szymański. Grzegorz-freaking-Szymański.

Feliks wanted to throttle that Argentine midget. _'Of all people, why him?! Why?! At least Bąkiewicz played sometimes in this farc-"_

"He seems to be desperate." Ivan lightly commented. The pleasure and satisfaction in his voice were poorly hidden.

Poland swallowed a curse. "You don't know that. He will, totally kick your team's ass! You'll see!" Yeah, he didn't believe in his own words either.

Ivan was looking at him with pity. He turned away to watch the slaughter.

And stared. Then stared some more.

Feliks blinked, regarding the sight before him.

Was it him or were they in lead? And was that Szymański who just a moment before effortlessly scored?

A while later, Piotr Gruszka, his captain, entered the field. After a few successful attacks, it became obvious.

Gruszka had it with these motherfucking Russians on this motherfucking Stadium.

* * *

"It's just one set." said calmly Ivan.

Poland, who was in the middle of screaming his lungs out, raised an eyebrow.

"Uhuh. Right. Keep telling yourself that."

They won the 3rd set. They were still losing 2:1 but at least they were fighting!

"_Polsha, Polsha. _It would be embarrassing to lose at this point in the tournament 3:0. Consider that set a gift from me." He smiled widely. Feliks gritted his teeth.

"You sure are talkative, like, now, _Rosja_. Don't worry." he patted Ivan on the shoulder. "I'll totally hold your hand, when you lose." _'Oh God, please, don't let it be true! We've got to win!'_

Russia's eyes flashed dangerously. Poland immediately pulled his hand away.

"I see you recovered your previous bravado, _Polsha_. But it's better this way. It's no fun when the victim doesn't struggle a little." He stroked lovingly his Faucet, watching Feliks with a hungry look. "Brace yourself, little Feliks."

Poland gulped.

* * *

After first points in the 4th set, the tension levels escalated off the charts.

Poland was biting his finely manicured nails. Russia, despite what he had said, was nervously chewing on his scarf, at oddest moments pulling out "Smirnoff" and taking deep swings from it.

Feliks risked a glance at his neighbor from the corner of his eye. Suddenly, he frowned.

"Oi, Ivan."

The man in question grunted, not looking away from the match.

"Isn't it my vodka you're drinking?"

This time, Russia turned to him, wearing the most innocent smile he could manage. Feliks wasn't fooled.

"Why, what makes you say that, _Polsha_? It's "Smirnoff", _da_? It's Russian."

Poland narrowed his eyes even more. "I'm not talking about that (even though I'm producing more of it than you now, jackass). I mean it's my bottle. I bought this stuff."

Russia's face was a perfectly unreadable smiling mask. "I don't know what you're talking about, little Feliks." A use of his name should have sent off warning signals in Poland's head, but he was too angry to care. One messes with vodka and they mess with Poland.

"Then why is this written on the bottle: "Totally a property of Feliks, Do NOT touch"?"

Ivan was still smiling. He didn't even glance at the bottle. "Why, I don't know, Feliks. Care to enlighten me?"

For a moment they were only glaring at each other, but finally Poland relented.

"Fine. You can have it. I didn't want it anyway, it tastes like crap." Of course he relented in his usual manner.

Russia's smile became very cold. "It's probably because your Polish company screwed it up."

Feliks sneered. "Or maybe it's because your Russian recipe is so bad that even my awesome company couldn't make it better."

At 18:16 with Poland in lead, under the net, sparks flied. Vulgarisms were said and fingers were showed. But it was nothing compared to what was happening between the teams' nations when Russia readied his Faucet of Doom, which seemed to tremble with anticipation and Poland gripped tightly his sabre which he pulled out of nowhere.

It may have been for the better that Arthur, who together with other countries couldn't resist the good show provided by both Slavs, was nearby (eating popcorn) as he was able to stop them from starting WWIII. However, upon returning from his mission, he threw himself at Alfred and Francis sobbing into their chests that he was such a "bloody horrible person" to them and thanked the Queen for being alive. Since that time, England promised himself to never _EVER_ under any circumstances participate in Volleyball Championships of either gender. Probability of injury was very high.

Poland was also glad Arthur stopped them. Otherwise he would have missed the moment Poltavsky received a ball to the face from Polish blockers.

Ivan's priceless expression was an added bonus, too.

* * *

This was blasphemy. This was madness. This was-

"_POLSKA! BIAŁO-CZERWONI!_"

Feliks was shouting as loudly as he could. They won, they-_kurka_-won! Tiebreak was only a formality. And who gave a damn it wasn't the final match? They could lose 3:0 for all he cared because They. Won! That Lozano actually pulled it off! His boys pulled it off!

They totally went Motreal'76 on Ivan's ass!

Speaking of Ivan-

"Congratulations."

Feliks looked in surprise at the Russian. He expected him to simply leave without saying a word (okay, fine, he forgot Ivan was even there, happy?). He shook the proffered hand, grinning widely at the taller man.

"Thanks, Ivan."

Russia stared at him with a strange spark in his eyes. For a moment, he looked as if he was about to smile, but instead coughed, muttering something about how he had to go.

Feliks couldn't explain why he felt disappointed at that.

They simultaneously glanced at their still-linked hands.

'_Well, this is awkward.'_ thought Feliks.

They pulled away. Ivan at once turned from the smaller nation, fixing his scarf.

"Feliks?"

Poland looked at Russia's back.

"Yeah?"

"You transport oil from Siberia through Belarus, isn't that right? Pipeline "Friendship", _da_?"

"Um, yeah. Why are you asking?"

"No reason."

With that, Ivan walked away, an ominous sound of "Kolkolkol" following him.

Poland blinked.

"What's his problem?"

* * *

January 7, anno Domini 2007, Poland, _Feliks' house_

"RUSSIA CUTS OIL SUPPLIES TO POLAND AND UKRAINE!"

Feliks stared at the first page of his newspaper.

He walked to the window, which was opened in the general direction of north-east and shouted:

"DAMN YOU, IVAN, YOU SORE LOSER!"

* * *

January 7, anno Domini 2007, Russia, _Ivan's house_

"DAMN YOU, IVAN, YOU SORE LOSER!"

Ivan Braginsky looked up from the morning newspaper. He nodded in approval, raised his glass of "Smirnoff" as if toasting some invisible person and drank the contents in one gulp, before relaxing in his favorite chair.

It was good to be Russia.

* * *

**_A/N: _**Lesson learnt today: Russia is always on top (of things). Even when you think he isn't.

I have nothing (much) against Russian Team but when they're playing again Poland, I'm totally rooting for my country.

Also: VOLLEYBALL IS SERIOUS BUSINESS!

And what's that? You think I believe Putin cut of oil because his team lost to Poland? Whatever gave you that idea? (Seriously though, no)

I'd have ended this with "lol France" like the last one, but I adore French Volleyball Team so:

lol England

Happy New Year, Everybody! (And belated Merry Christmass, hehe)

Read&Review


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